


The Wolf and His Flock

by TumbleDragon



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018) RPF
Genre: Abuse, Colonialism, F/M, Framing Story, Internalized Misogyny, Minor canon divergence, Misogyny, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Pilgrims - Freeform, Polyamory, Puritans, Race, Rituals, Submission, unethical polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2020-06-29 02:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TumbleDragon/pseuds/TumbleDragon
Summary: When she married Faustus, she never imagined that tracking his infidelities would be a full-time job. Who knew that in the process, she would unearth the dark history of the Greendale Coven? A Lady Blackwood story.





	1. Chapter 1: Rebecca Bathory

**Author's Note:**

> I attempted to create a more sociological backstory behind the Coven and behind the motivations of certain characters. This takes place before the events of season 1.

## Chapter 1: Rebecca Bathory

  
  
  
  


_“To my earthly children who congregate in the night:_

_Your Dark Lord rewards those who worship him through carnal lust._

_Pleasures of the flesh are His most generous gifts to you. Indulge in every licentious desire._

_But never forget — love is reserved for Him and Him alone.”_

  
  
  


Lady Constance Blackwood muttered the verse over and over again until she had paced the entirety of the master bedroom. It was well past the time that Faustus said he would be home. Constance shook her head and approached the leather chaise lounge by the bookcase. Upon sitting, she pinched her brow to relieve the mounting tension. She knew that he was like this. Even when they first married, she heard inklings about his behavior. But at that time, she was in denial that it could happen to her. Sure, their coupling was arranged by the Dark Lord himself. But the initial attraction was still present. In the midst of their passionate rendezvous meetings and sleepless nights in bed, she could convince herself that she was enough for him. That the rumors of his voracious appetite could be sated by her biting wit and supple body. But that fantasy was shattered less than twenty short years into the marriage when he confessed to her of a transgression with another witch in their coven. Faustus apologized and promised to her that it would not happen again. But then, ten years later, she heard rumors of him being pursued by a former pupil: Rebecca Bathory. They would fight and make up. But then similar infidelities would happen again. And again. The actual number of individual women was unknown, but Rebecca Bathory was a repeat offender. Constance sucked her teeth when she remembered that name. What could be said about Rebecca Bathory? From Constance’ observations, the girl who graduated from the academy decades ago was devoid of personality. But she was young and dressed sluttily, so that must have been enough for him. Constance had told herself that would be the last time that she forgave him. But he always found a way to snake his way into her good graces. It was the same sob story that he always used: he was polyamorous and it was an important part of his sexuality, but he is always fighting that side of him. 

At first, Constance accepted this excuse. She knew that for traditionalists like Faustus, they took the Old Ways very seriously. As far as his romantic preferences went, Constance was at a loss. From Faustus’ own admission, his first relationships in his formative years were all polyamorous and it was the only arrangement he claimed to know. If he had left it at that, then that would be one thing. But shortly after this confession, he never ceased to drop hints in their bedroom about opening it up to others. The constant suggestions that she take a lover. The hushed whispers during post-coital pillow-talk about bringing in a well-endowed woman for them both to suckle from — All of these suggestions were met with Lady Blackwood’s immediate rejection. After breaching the topic with some trusted ladies who were also traditionalists, they insisted to her that this was not acceptable behavior and that his excuse was woefully insufficient for explaining his lack of regard for her desires. It was after taking the consensus of her allies that Constance withdrew from him once more.

In the months that followed, Faustus attempted to initiate sex with more novel suggestions. Roleplay, flagellation, spanking, choking, and much more. She agreed to try the receiving end of choking and spanking, but the experiences left her uncomfortable and exhausted — a far cry from her more satisfying fantasies of the acts. As a final suggestion, Faustus suggested roleplay and flagellation to further feed into her submissive side, but she refused to entertain it on the grounds of it feeling somewhat inappropriate. She tried to articulate her feelings on the matter, but with no success. What resulted was yet another fight — she was too prudish; he was too clueless. It was the same argument that plagued them during every dry spell. 

Constance released a yawn and made her way to the bed. She crawled into bed and faced her body away from the door. She waited as long as she could before drifting off into much-needed sleep. Several hours later, a tall figure entered the room. The figure stripped himself of his clothes, then whispered an ancient phrase until the candles in the room extinguished themselves. While cloaked in darkness, he crawled underneath the duvet cover and silk sheets and wrapped his body around his wife.

“Hello.” he huskily whispered into her ear as he brushed aside her dark curls.

Constance rolled over in her half-sleep state and peered into his face that was shrouded in the shadows. 

“Who is she?” She hissed, still in a groggy state.

“Wha—? What?” he asked in confusion.

“You know what I mean.” she quipped as she ripped the covers away from him and retreated to the far end of the bed.

Faustus sat up in bed and palmed his face.

“Not this…” he groaned. “For Hell’s sake! I thought I told you that I would be at the academy until late tonight. It’s midterms and the moronic underclassmen can’t get a simple fire cantrip to —.” 

Constance shot out of bed and grabbed her night robe. She swiftly exited through the bedroom door without so much as casting a glare.

“I’m sleeping in the guest room from now on. All I ask for is honesty.”

Constance laid in bed well past noon. Her marriage was damaged. Possibly irreparably so. Her mind was not only exhausted from the lack of sleep but from the endless barrage of her husband’s transgressions that she had to endure. She never imagined herself to be a woman who was tethered to her husband’s actions, but that is exactly what she chose when she accepted his proposal. When they had married, he was second in line to the priesthood — a status that appealed to her. After the untimely deaths of Edward and Diana Spellman, his ascension was made official by the Anti-Pope. But with the title of High Priest also came responsibility for Constance. As far as the Council of Elders was concerned, she was a figurehead and a broodmare — a designation that with every subsequent miscarriage, she failed to fulfill. Her vocational position that involved the management of the choir was all that was expected of her, aside from bearing children and accompanying Faustus to ceremonies. The thought of leaving him was a familiar one. But where would she go? Her family had belonged to the Greendale Church of Night for over a century. She would have to uproot everything and roam the country for a new home.

Constance sighed and pulled the guest bed’s duvet over her head. She tried to recount the events of the past few years that still weighed on her.

* * *

It was a year ago when Constance had initiated another break in response to his most recent tryst with the Bathory girl. It was during this three-month-long dry spell that both she and her husband were invited to dinner with the Spellmans. Constance remembered the dinner quite well. Their niece, Sabrina Spellman, was at a sleepover, as she was not yet to be introduced to the Church. As for the sisters, Constance found Hilda Spellman’s bubbly disposition to be almost as saccharine as her rhubarb pie. But at least Hilda was kind and easy to ignore. As for Zelda Spellman, well...Constance had felt warmer reception from an icebox. Of course, Zelda’s reaction to Faustus was the exact opposite. She laughed at every paltry joke of his and took every opportunity to show off her middling knowledge of theological matters. Every so often, Constance would interrupt to correct Zelda over a misquoted verse or a misinterpretation of the texts. In a perverse way, Lady Blackwood could find the humor in the situation. She knew that her corrections would only spur Zelda to study the Book even harder for the next time she tried to engage her husband in shallow discussion. Even Lady Blackwood would notice the impressed gleam in Faustus’ eyes when she would counter the Spellman sister. 

But there was one Spellman who drew Lady Blackwood’s immediate attention upon entering the home. She had fleeting encounters with the Spellman warlock whenever she visited, but this time was different. Typically, he was not invited to their dinners due to his disenfranchised status, but Faustus had insisted that he joined them this time. Even during dinner, Constance could not keep her eyes off of the young warlock’s wonderful dark curls, his golden-brown skin, his sculpted arms, and his handsome young face. Between bites of Hilda’s squash and Zelda’s braised virgin liver, Constance would steal glances at him. She could not help but wonder how the _tagati_ warlock was related to the Spellmans. At some point, Ambrose’s own eyes met her own. He quickly averted his gaze and nervously resumed eating. Every so often, Constance would catch him staring at her. Was he just intimidated by her? No. This was something else entirely. Immediately, Constance felt a twinge in her stomach. This...whatever this was…. it was not supposed to be happening. For years, she could always take pride in being the one who did not stray. No matter how lonely, she would never even entertain the idea. Until now.

“I must excuse myself,” muttered Constance.

“Oh, to the lavatory?” piped up Hilda, “It’s right down the hall and to your left!”

Without a word, Constance hurriedly made her way down the hall. Inside of the bathroom, she sat on the edge of the porcelain bathtub, closed her eyes, and tried to think of anything but the swarthy young man in the other room. She felt...anger. Anger at Faustus for causing their distance. Anger at herself for reacting like a horny schoolgirl around the Spellman warlock. After what seemed like a long period of time, she heard a deep chuckle erupt from the bathroom door. 

“Well, Constance. I see that you finally met your undoing.”

Constance glared at her husband. Had he used a silencing charm to enter the room without her awareness? 

“What? ...What do you want?” she sighed.

Faustus walked over to her and caressed her delicate face. The sharp tips of his fingernails cruelly traced her lips.

“My dear, Constance.” he purred and knelt closer to her, “I just want you to be happy. I want both of us to be happy.”

She stared at him in confusion. While one hand continued to stroke her face, another one crept up her smooth brown legs to disappear under her dress. As if breaking out of a spell, Constance moved his hands out of the way and stood up to face him.

“Husband, please! What is the matter with you?!” she inquired in a hushed tone, “They’re probably wondering what in Satan’s name we are doing in here!”

“I think they know exactly what we are doing,” he whispered as he began sucking on her neck.

“Faustus…” she cried, “we can’t.”

He stopped kissing her neck and began breathing into her ear.

“I bet you would let Ambrose fuck you.”

Constance broke out of his embrace and stared at him incredulously. She felt as if all of her air had left her lungs. 

“You should take him as a lover,” he smiled at her, “He’s attracted to you. It’s obvious.”

Constance’ palm immediately connected to Faustus’ cheek in a loud smack. Faustus winced and massaged his face in shock.

“You are such a pig!” she snapped, “I’m not stupid. You want me to...have him so as to let you off the hook? And for what? So that you can have every reason to pursue Zelda?”

Constance walked past him to the door’s entryway. Faustus watched her in sheepish resentment. 

Constance’ appetite had seemingly disappeared by the time she had returned to the dinner table. She still could not believe that she had been disgusted enough to strike her husband. Despite her anxiety about the impending punishment for her transgression, Constance attempted to resume dinner in as nonchalant of a manner as she could muster. Faustus’ near silence and reddened face made that task a challenging one. Not even Zelda attempted to engage him.


	2. Prudence Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to tag it when Chapter 1 was uploaded, but there will be some canon divergence in terms of character backstories that simply weren't explored enough in the show.

## Chapter 2: Prudence Night

Constance laid in bed and continued to reflect on the events of the Spellman dinner from last year. Every time she was about to drift off to sleep, she could not help but mentally count his known affairs. But what about the ones he did not disclose to her? Ones that he could not burden her with? That was extremely problematic. The Council of Elders had made it very clear to her and Faustus that their children would be groomed for potential priesthood just as Faustus and Edward were when they were younger. But what if this whole time he had other offspring out in the world? Constance had breached the topic before with her husband and he immediately dismissed the existence of bastards as well as the possibility of such hypothetical offspring posing any kind of threat. This did not put Constance’ worries at ease. As much as Faustus refused to admit it, she knew that most covens did acknowledge the illegitimate children of High Priests. 

During the next day, while instructing the Church’s youth choir, the fleeting thoughts would intrude on the one activity that gave her satisfaction. And then, just like that, a familiar voice took over the next verse of the song:

“Our Lord is fated to return,

On the most Unholy of Days.

And I shall be there to observe,

The rites of the Old Ways.”

Constance broke out of her meditation to realize that the leading voice was none other than Prudence Night. Constance bit her lip in consternation. She felt her stomach clench into a knot. She felt sick. As the choral group continued their recitation, Constance’s eyes glazed over as the disturbing realization washed over her. She remembered at the beginning of their marriage when Faustus had introduced her to Prudence. The orphaned tagati witch was about five or six years of age. Faustus explained to Constance that young Prudence was the orphaned offspring of an old friend and was of particular interest to him. He had taken her under his wing as his unofficial ward. Even before she was old enough to attend the Academy of Unseen Arts, Faustus insisted on giving the girl private attention that her other orphaned Weird Sisters did not receive. Whenever Constance had asked her husband of what the girl meant to him, he was evasive and vague. For a man who seemed almost incapable of giving a woman a modicum of genuine affection without ulterior motives, he showered a suspicious amount of interest onto an orphaned girl. 

_Could she be…?_

Constance swallowed a lump in her throat as she evaluated the possibility. No other possibility seemed likely. As students filed past her out of the door, Constance snapped out of her train of thought. She scanned the stage to see that Prudence and her sisters were almost ready to leave.

“Prudence, dear. Could I please speak with you for a moment?”

Surprised, Prudence obediently walked over to Lady Blackwood.

“Yes, Lady Blackwood?” 

“Prudence, when was the last time that you and I had a chat? Just the two of us?” 

The girl paused and bit her lip as she tried to guess what the woman was getting at.

“I’m...not entirely sure,” she replied as cautiously as possible. 

“Well, I’ve been thinking. It sometimes feels as if you sort of grew up around our family. I just feel like I never had the time to really get to know you. The real you. The you that my husband sees. Understand?”

Prudence nodded as she tried to process Lady Blackwood’s suggestion. For a woman who was apt to ignore her or even appear suspicious of her, Prudence was not prepared for the possibility of a friendly relationship.

“Did you...did you want to speak in private, Lady Blackwood?” the girl asked with sincere curiosity. 

“Absolutely. How about you meet me in my office? Is now a good time?”

“Um...Yes, of course.” Prudence nodded.

“How splendid” muttered Constance as she and Prudence began to exit the chapel. 

  


* * *

Prudence’s eyes trailed around the room in an awkward attempt to distract herself from the silence between her and Constance. Unlike Faustus’ office which was filled with various curios and artifacts of theological or historical significance, Constance’ office was relatively spartan. There was only her oak desk, a gramophone, and a bookshelf filled with music books and vinyl records.

“So. Dear Prudence.” began Constance, “Of course you are the star pupil in my class. But your other classes are going well?”

Prudence nodded.

“You know, I distinctly remember the very first day that you came into me and...er...my husband’s life, those years ago.”

“Yes. I remember as well…” Prudence trailed off.

“Right...Well, I remember the governess who brought you to meet us. The one who continued to keep you until you were old enough to start at the Academy. She had said that your surname was “Night”. And nothing else.” 

Prudence’s brow was slightly furrowed in confusion.

“Um. Yes. Those are indeed the facts…”

“So you do not know anything about your parentage? Or the circumstances surrounding your birth?”

“Well...No. All I know is that my mother passed away when I was still a toddler. I don’t really know the circumstances around her death. I barely remember her face. I never even met my father...Is...is there something you are trying to tell me?”

“Well, no. I’m just curious, is all.”

“Lady Blackwood…”

“Constance” corrected the elder witch, “Between you and I, it’s just Constance.”

“Right...fine. Constance, what is the meaning of this? No offense intended, but I’m not really following this line of questioning.”

Constance held herself back from sneering at the sudden impatience. She could barely stand the girl’s cockiness and sharp mouth in class on most days. It took every ounce of will in her body to put on the pretense of kindliness towards her for this meeting.

“Prudence, my dear. I’m just trying to recount the details surrounding your arrival. Now your governess’ name. The one at the orphanage. What was it?” 

“Well...her name was Sarah Goodman.”

  
“Ah. And which orphanage was this?”

Prudence shrugged.

“There’s...only one. Well, that I know of. It’s the Old Mill on Sweetwater river.” 

Constance nodded as she took mental notes. 

“Thank you, Prudence. That’s all for today, I think.”

“Are...are you sure that’s it? Nothing else that you want to —?”

Lady Blackwood nodded and escorted the young witch to the door of her office.

“I’m afraid that’s all of the time I have right now. We will have to do this again. Goodbye!”

Constance closed the office door and then stormed over to the coat rack to put on her black pea coat. The Old Mill was only a few miles away from the Academy, and yet this was the first time that she heard of it being used as an orphanage for the Coven. Due to the low birth rate of witches, orphans were relatively rare. The designation of which buildings were to be used to house orphans were entirely dependant on how many orphans there were at the time and which of their communal spaces were not in use. For over a century, the Old Mill was condemned and abandoned by the mortals of Greendale. It was entirely possible that the Coven has converted the interior into a living space for children. 

  


* * *

Dead leaves and spring air curled around her as she teleported into a clearing of a thick forest. After a few cautionary glances around her shoulder, a loud rustling of leaves startled her. To her relief when she whipped around, she noticed a small white cat running off into the distance. Feral cats may not be a problem, but prying mortal eyes certainly are. Thankful for the reminder, she cast a protective cloaking spell and proceeded down the dirt trail. As much as she would like to simply teleport to the location of the mill, she knew that she could only do so after visiting it first. After what felt like an eternity of walking, she began to hear the loud roaring and clapping of waves against rocks. She had arrived at Sweetwater River — The serpentine river that served as a border between Greendale County and Riverdale County. Constance proceeded along the river’s edge until she noticed a dilapidated rooftop in the distance. She sighed in relief to know that her journey was over. 

Constance knocked on the termite-eaten door of the building. Centuries of living with the Coven meant that she knew better than to assume that the decrepit building truly was abandoned.

“Hello? Ms. Goodman? Are you inside?”

After a few moments without a response, Constance knocked once more.

“Ms. Goodman. This is Constance Blackwood. Wife of the High Priest. I wish to speak with you. Do you still reside here?”

The hum of locusts and evening bird-songs permeated the silence. Constance gazed off into the sunset. Nightfall was soon approaching. She should really be heading home. Constance focused her attention back onto the door. Perhaps Sarah Goodman had relocated elsewhere? What if she had been deceased for years and this was a fool's errand all along?

As if to answer her internal question, the door slowly creaked as it opened to the outside world. Lady Blackwood staggered backward in surprise. Beyond the entryway was pitch darkness. There were not even the resulting sunspots that one would expect to see from the partial roof and cracked walls of the building’s exterior. Nothing but umbrous, impenetrable, nothingness. 

“Please, do come in.” croaked a raspy voice.

Constance slowly did as she was instructed. Once inside, the door slammed shut. Darkness enveloped her.

“What brings you here?” inquired the voice.

“Is this...Ms. Goodman? Are you the governess of orphaned witches and warlocks?”

As if to answer her, a flame ignited on a nearby sconce. The room illuminated and Constance could finally make out four cobweb-netted walls and a simple wooden table with chairs. She invited herself to sit down. On the other side of the room was a closed door. Laying in front of it was a white cat with jade-colored eyes. Constance almost gasped when she realized what type of creature was staring back at her.

“I see that you have already met Bathsheba.” a voice emerged from behind Constance.

Constance jumped up to attention and to face the new figure that had teleported behind her. Wrinkles lined her stern face. She wore a traditional ensemble of a dark black frock and a white bonnet. 

“Please, sit.” instructed the elder woman.

She did as she was told. 

“Are you Ms. Goodman?” Constance inquired.

The elder witch nodded as she took her seat.

“I apologize for not having any refreshments for you. But I was not exactly expecting any company...”

“Thank you, but it’s really not a problem. I apologize for intruding. It’s just...I’m looking for answers and I’m afraid that you are the only one who can help me. It’s so strange, Ms. Goodman. I’ve only recently learned of your role in the Coven from talking with Prudence Night. Faustus refused to answer any of my questions.

“...Constance, is it? Didn’t your husband tell you?”

Constance tensed at the question. 

“Tell me what, exactly?”

“Well...I’m afraid it’s not my place to say.”

Lady Blackwood’s fingers gripped the edge of the table. She clenched her teeth at the response.

_I knew it._

“Ms. Goodman, I...I don’t know how else to put this. But it has come to my attention that there are some secrets that my husband is keeping from me. Secrets that have rather serious implications for the future of the Coven. As the wife of the High Priest, I must ask you to please be honest with me.”

Sarah Goodman pursed her lips in discomfort. Lady Blackwood continued.

“Years ago, Prudence Night matriculated from this orphanage and became my husband’s ward. He is a bit secretive regarding her parentage. I suspect that he isn't being truthful. I only knew of this place from speaking with her. Now I need to know the truth: Who are her parents?

Sarah Goodman frowned. She walked past Constance towards the closed door to pick up her cat familiar.

  
“He never confirmed it in my presence. But I have eyes and ears throughout this coven. Prudence Night is your husband’s bastard. And Meredith Night was her mother. I’m...so very sorry that you had to learn of it this way.”

Constance nodded as she hid her clenched fists under the table. Sorrow was not an option. But anger could at least be a useful tool to spur her on her quest for truth. Sarah opened the oak door behind her. The room was filled with empty cots.

“When Prudence arrived here as a babe, her mother Meredith had died from suicide. She had been jilted by Faustus, of course. Months later, Agatha and Dorcas also arrived at the orphanage. Those three were the only orphans I had at the time. And the only ones I’ve had since. It’s strange. It’s quite rare when the coven has more than one orphan at a time. And we had three. All unrelated, too. But that year was exceptional...Quite exceptional.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Constance.

Sarah Goodman closed the door behind her and turned to face Constance. With one hand holding Bathsheba, she used the other to grip Constance by the shoulder.

“Lady Blackwood. I’ve prayed for this coven ever since that fateful day. And I shall pray for you especially.”

Constance was shocked by the governess’ grave tone. 

“What are you saying?”

“When Prudence and the other sisters arrived, we were expecting another child. A newborn. The mother had died, and days later, the child died in its sleep.”

A lump formed in Constance’s throat. Her chest grew heavy. 

“The mother who died was Meredith’s half-sister. There were...rumors of their relations. Meredith’s and her sister’s trysts with Faustus—”

“Are you really implying what I think you’re implying? How dare you!” 

“It was never proven!” whispered Sarah, “Their cause of death was never determined. But I still believe that you deserve to know. Let this be your warning.”

“That is preposterous! It’s one thing to hide a child. It’s quite another to get away with murdering women and their children! And how in Lucifer’s name would he have gotten away with it? No. I remember when it happened. It was a contagious illness.” 

“I’m sure that’s what Faustus had announced to the Coven. But I’ve been a member ever since it was first established. There are secrets that Faustus is keeping from you. From all of you. Secrets that go far back into Greendale’s history.”

Constance paused to reflect on this. Her family had relocated to Greendale from Canada in the mid-1800s. Edward Spellman had just ascended to the position of High Priest. She only knew of Faustus in passing, and that he was Edward’s second-in-line at the time. Being newcomers, she and her parents did not have the deep ties that connected them to the other families in the coven. As a result, at the Academy of Unseen Arts, she had spent much of her time studying alone and had few companions. She recalled Faustus being the subject of some salacious rumors about his romantic life but seeing as she was an underclassman and younger than that social circle, none of the names or details stuck out to her. The more she recalled that time of her life, the more she realized there was possibly a whole history with those deceased witches that she was not privy to. 

“Please,” pleaded Constance, “Tell me everything.”

“It’s getting late, Lady Blackwood,” Goodman whispered as she opened the front door for her guest, “If you return tomorrow, then I can show you the history of this coven. A history that many here have already forgotten.”

“ ‘Show’?” repeated Constance.

“Indeed. Please return tomorrow at midday.”


	3. Chapter 3: The Seer’s Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: abuse, bloody-ish ritual. Played around with canon familial relationships.

## Chapter 3: The Seer’s Eye

  
  
  
Constance entered the door of her home. Seated at the far end of the living room was her husband.

“I thought that your class ended at 5 o’clock?”

Ignoring his sharp tone, she removed her peacoat and rested it on the coat rack by the door. She loathed to admit it, but Sarah Goodman’s accusations rattled around in her mind. 

_I do not fear my husband._

“Yes. It did.”

Faustus stood from his chair and briskly made his way over to his wife. 

“Then where have you been? What happened to dinner?”

_My husband is not a murderer._

“Faustus, I was just busy. You were perfectly free to cook your dinner _—_.”

Without warning, Faustus grabbed her wrist and jerked her towards him. His cold blue eyes stared down her dark brown ones. A sickening chill traveled up her spine when he spoke.

“You’ve been very disrespectful lately. When _I_ am late coming home, it’s due to pressing matters that require my presence. What personal business could _you_ possibly have?”

Constance fought to regain her composure. 

“I...I had a meeting with a student. I’m sorry.” She internally justified her half-truth with the fact that she had met with Prudence before her excursion in the woods.

His grip loosened on her wrist, but his chilling gaze continued to study her.

“A student meeting lasted that long?”

Before she could come up with a suitable excuse fast enough, Faustus interjected.

“Whatever. The reason is of little concern to me.” he briskly walked past her to ascend the staircase.

“Constance...I understand that your position at the Academy is very important to you. But lately, you have been failing at every wifely duty that is required of you. _Every_. _Single_. _One_.”

Constance fought back a frustrated sob from escaping. 

“I know that my past behavior has planted seeds of doubt in you. But to answer your request from the other night, I _am_ being honest about my fidelity. There is no other woman. I’m only focused on us. I can only hope that you are equally committed to this union.”

“Of course I am, Faustus.” she tried to conceal just how much his words were hurting her. 

“Then prove it to me.” 

Faustus remained where he stood at the top of the staircase. His solemn expression waiting expectedly on her answer. Constance knew that if there were ever a moment to leave him, now would be the time. She hesitated. Years of living under his dominion taught her that her true nature was to be subservient to him. To be accepting of whatever duties were expected of her in this union. She always rationalized that it’s precisely what made them compatible with each other. Is that not the natural order of things? Is that not the very nature of her husband that appealed to her in the first place? She wanted a traditional man who enforced the hierarchy of the Old Ways. Is he not what she deserved? Without uttering a word, Constance walked the staircase until she faced him. She clutched his hand in hers.

“Good. We are on the same page.” he breathed huskily.

Once he closed the door to their bedroom, Faustus walked over to their vanity dresser. He opened the top-middle drawer and pulled out a sheathed dagger. Veins of gold and mother of pearl decorated the black sheath. He turned to find his wife sitting at the edge of their bed.

“We call to you, our Dark Lord, for assistance on this night.” he approached the bed while continuing his evocation, “Please bless my wife with a child born of my seed.”

With his eyes locked on hers, he quickly dragged the blade along the palm of his left hand. Clutching her left breast, he then used his right hand to gradually slash it. She winced as he continued working its tip diagonally along her mound while avoiding the nipple. If she did not know better, she would have thought that her husband was drawing out her pain for as long as possible. His cut was deeper and slower than usual. Once finished, Faustus grasped the wounded breast with his left hand and greedily held it. A hiss escaped her teeth as she felt the stinging sensation. Without warning, Faustus collided his lips onto his wife’s. He slowly guided her body until she lay supine, and with him ravishing her mouth on top of her. Their tongues danced and curled over each other in unison until he began sucking on her bottom lip. As his mouth devoured her own, he worked on unbuttoning her dress. With her dress and panties removed, he returned to her mouth while his fingers began tracing the curves of her body. Constance chuckled at his sudden fixation on her mouth, before feeling his teeth clamp down on her bottom lip.

“Ah!” she exclaimed while her tongue prodded the afflicted flesh, “Faustus, I’m bleeding.”

He ignored her complaint and raked his fingernails over both of her smooth hips. She gasped in surprise and instinctively rubbed the wounds to gauge their severity. Small blood droplets smeared on her fingertips. Faustus cupped her face in his hands.

“If this is for the ritual, then it’s unnecessary!” she cried, “I’ve bled enough.”

Her husband shook his head. 

“We’ve had countless miscarriages. And you still let your duties lapse. We have a palpable strain on our marriage...you openly disobey and disrespect me...all the while, you _still_ balk at giving your flesh to Him?”

“I...I’m not understanding?”

Faustus sighed.

“Can’t you see what’s happening? Your lack of commitment is so blatant that the Dark Lord is punishing us with infertility.”

Constance reflected on what he had said. His justification was not satisfactory in the slightest. Plenty of witches conceive without resorting to nearly as many measures like the ones they have tried. Only a small number of witches ever resort to using fertility rituals. Is what he said true? Were they being punished?

‘ _We’ aren’t being punished. I am._

Faustus moved her legs apart in preparation to manipulate the sensitive flesh that resided there. Her heart sank as it finally dawned on her as to what he was doing. He was the one doing the punishing. 

“Do you want to try for a child, or not?” he snapped. 

* * *

She awoke to find herself still tangled in her husband’s arms and legs. She gradually twisted her body to ease out of his grasp. Each motion sent waves of dull pains through her body. Once out of his grasp, she began walking to their bathroom. Each step sent a tear-like pain through her. Every muscle in her body ached. After mumbling an incantation, the bathroom lights flickered on. She let out a sharp gasp of surprise at the body that stared back at her in the mirror. The first thing that shocked her were the red-purple handprints that marked her neck. Constance sighed as she prodded and studied the numerous hickeys that lined her neck and breasts. Even her arms and wrists had imprints from where he pinned her down. Her lips were still swollen and split. 

“Oh, my apologies,” cooed her nude husband from behind her. While inspecting herself in the mirror this whole time, she somehow missed when he had appeared behind her. Despite her many years of living with him, his glamor-like tricks still startled and disturbed her.

“Faustus...I can’t teach at the Academy in this state. I simply cannot.”

He nodded as he lowered his head to deliver a light kiss on her shoulder.

“Of course. Do not fret. I forbid you from the Academy for the time being anyway.”

“You...you what?” She pulled away from him amid his shower of kisses.

Faustus stretched as he walked back to the hallway to their bedroom.

“You are better off spending some time away from the Academy. Perhaps the next day or two to get your _domestic_ priorities in order? As far as the Coven is concerned, you recently fell ill. That’s all that needs to be said.”

Constance stormed out of the bathroom and stared at him incredulously. She wordlessly watched as he dressed in his shirt, vest, and black frock. He then kissed her on the cheek and made his way downstairs.

“I should be home at a reasonable hour tonight. I look forward to whatever dinner you decide on cooking for us.”

Once she was sure he had left the house, Constance released a loud, exasperated groan and collapsed on the bed. Out of all of his attempts to control her, this was possibly the lowest and most concerning. While staring at the ceiling, she remembered her appointment with Sarah Goodman. She cursed as she contemplated the best way to conceal the evidence of their rough lovemaking. 

* * *

At midday, Constance was at the door of the Old Mill just as Sarah Goodman instructed. She mentally recounted her to-do list of the day. She had spent most of the morning preparing the rabbit leek stew for that night’s dinner. Assuming that she returned home before four o’clock, she could use a spell to expedite the cooking process. Crimson lipstick concealed the small wounds. A high-collar dress and turtleneck enveloped her neck. The long sleeves of her dress covered her bruises. As soon as she raised her hand to knock on the worm-eaten door of the mill, the door slowly creaked open on its own accord. 

“Please come in,” whispered a familiar voice.

Once Constance stepped through the black oblivion of the room, light sconces lit themselves and illuminated the room. Sitting at the table was Sarah with a plate of pastries and a steaming tea kettle. Bathsheba meowed and hopped into her lap.

“As I mentioned yesterday, I am a far better hostess when I’m made aware of my visitors,” she said with a chuckle.

Constance sat in the open chair. Sarah raised the kettle above her cup and Constance nodded in approval. After a few sips of tea, Constance studied Sarah while she stroked Bathsheba in her lap. From what Constance could determine, Sarah almost seemed overjoyed to have a guest. She intuited that Sarah Goodman was a lonely old woman who missed taking care of children and who enjoyed finally having some company.

“So Lady Blackwood,” chirruped Sarah, “You are probably curious as to what it is I have to show you. Do you have a few hours to spare?”

Constance nodded. Sarah placed Bathsheba on the floor and pulled a black, leather, box from under the table. Once on the table, Sarah whipped out a ring of gold keys and unlocked the various locks on the chest.

“Lady Blackwood, are you familiar with the art of crystal-gazing?”

Constance’ brow furrowed as she watched the elder witch finish the task at hand. 

“I’ve never practiced it myself, but isn’t it used for looking to the future? Not the past?”

Sarah nodded as the final lock clicked open.

“When I was a young maiden, my governess was a Transylvanian witch. She taught me the art of crystal divination. But her people used it for much more than just telling the future, Lady Blackwood.”

Sarah opened the box and used both hands to remove a dark sphere from the chest. She set it down on the table with both hands still touching it by the fingertips. Instead of clear crystal, the sphere was a dark black-blue hue that was impenetrable to light. Specs of white, orange, and red appeared in swirls and clusters throughout the sphere. It reminded Constance of some galaxy from outer space. A sharp chill pricked up the hairs on her skin. There was something powerful contained in this thing. Potent magic that she had never encountered before.

“It’s called a _Seer’s Eye_. Go ahead. Touch it.” urged Sarah.

Constance cautiously inched a finger to the ball. Upon making contact with its smooth surface, the clusters of color swirled around her finger. A bright white light glowed from the core of the sphere. As the light burned brighter and larger, Constance’s full attention became more and more entranced in it. The walls of the orphanage melted away around her. Sarah and Bathsheba’s figures faded away like ghostly specters. Constance felt the room being enveloped by the same white light as the Seer’s Eye. She wanted to close her eyes and bring herself back to the Old Mill, but she was no longer in control. Her consciousness continued to dip in and out of awareness. Was she going mad? Was she dying? She truly could not tell. 

“You have to let go, dear,” crooned Sarah’s disembodied voice, “Be like the air and the ether.”

* * *

_The Demeter was_ a ship comparable to the size of _The Mayflower_ and _The Speedwell._ But unlike those other English ships, this one arrived on the coasts of the Greendale Colony. Upon disembarking on the foreign land, the ship’s captain read from the manifest in front of the crowds of pilgrims that were eager to stretch their legs and take in the fresh air. A young girl with red hair clutched at her mother’s dress. They had been on the ship for months and she was visibly fidgety. She held her brother’s hand in her other. Their father patted her on the shoulder for her attention.

“Shh, Zelda,” he whispered, “We must wait.”

“When will Hilda be here?” she cried.

“When the time is right,” he whispered into her ear. He knew that the situation was more complicated than that. Their High Priest had mandated that all warlocks refrain from bringing more than one wife to the New World until the next ship arrived from England. But he knew that Zelda would not understand the taboo of the situation involving Hilda and Hilda’s mother. He and the rest of the North England Coven had sacrificed so much for the opportunity of migrating to a New World that would offer them more privacy and freedom. The last thing they needed was for Zelda to inadvertently reveal one of their least puritanical secrets. 

“Blackwood family?” the captain called.

“Present,” shouted an auburn-headed man meters away from him. At his side were his raven-haired wife, a red-haired woman, and a raven-haired boy.

Elijah Spellman gawked at the Blackwoods in incredulity. How bold of Joseph Blackwood to bring his second wife! Yes, Elijah did consider bringing Hilda’s mother under the guise of her being a distant female relative. But he was not willing to tempt fate or to disobey High Priest Nicodemus’ words. After proceeding down the list of familiar names such as the Bathorys, Goodmans, Jacksons, Nights, Scratches, and Putnam, the captain finally shouted “Spellmans?”.

“Present” replied the Spellman patriarch. 

Along with the familiar name of “Putnam”, Elijah Spellman made note of thirteen women whose surnames were called. He recalled the service when the High Priest introduced the women to the Coven. They were part of a smaller, Scottish, all-female coven. Members of the church were wary of the witches as well as of the church’s mortal ally, Dorothea Putnam. Despite the members’ suspicion, the High Priest continued to preach his doctrine of acceptance and belief in the importance of forming alliances with mortals.

* * *

Within a few months of settling into the Greendale Colony, clear divisions amongst the colonists emerged. The English settlers of Brownist-Calvinist denomination took the coastal lands and fields. The German-Dutch settlers of Baptist and Anabaptist denominations took to the forests of the mountain basin. Lastly, the Northern English-Scots of Unknown Denomination descended upon the hills and mountains. The latter group kept to themselves and were vague about which branch of Christianity their denomination belonged to. Archaic names for old sects were often used interchangeably. To the other settlers’ surprise, the Northern English-Scots had a sizeable number of Africans that migrated with them. Whenever the topic arose during colony townhall meetings, Joseph Blackwood would be sure to interject and explain that they were converts and indentured servants from a long-ago mission trip to the African continent. As the questions continued to be raised with increasing intensity, Joseph Blackwood and Elijah Spellman made it a habit of showing up at colony townhall meetings to represent their community. But at such meetings, Elijah would introduce Joseph Blackwood as their “Priest”. A misnomer that Joseph was more than happy to embody. This unusual arrangement did not go unnoticed by Elijah’s perceptive children. One night, as the Spellman family walked from their house towards their temple for Black Mass, Edward and Zelda breached the question with their father.

“Father, why do we lie to the mortals about the High Priest?” asked Edward as he held Zelda’s hand. Zelda nodded her head in agreement. 

Elijah and Deborah looked at each other before continuing walking. Elijah pulled the children aside from the crowd of other witches and warlocks that were making their way to the temple. Deborah continued without them to secure their seats in the pews.

“Children, you are getting older now. And you know that there are secrets that we must keep from the mortals, correct?”

“Yes,” they replied in unison.

“And why do we do that?” he quizzed them.

“Because most mortals are intolerant.” the children answered in rehearsed unison. 

“Yes, exactly. If the mortals knew that Nicodemus was our High Priest, it would only breed more suspicion. They can never know about him. Do you understand?”

“But why?” whined Zelda.

“It does not matter the reason why! You only need to understand that they must never know the truth.”

Satisfied with their discussion, Elijah led the children into the temple. His children were still curious about their father’s explanation. While sitting in the pews, Edward and Zelda tried their best to focus on the hymns and readings from the texts. When the main procession began, the choir’s singing ended and a tall figure rose from his seat at the pulpit.

“Turn to page sixteen in The Book,” he commanded, “Despite our persecuted status, I wish to start this sermon off with a tale of an ancient coven that traveled to new lands in the hopes of finding a peaceful existence. We must be cautious in our dealings with the mortals. But I predict that this new arrangement with them can work in our favor. Mutual respect will be our saving grace.”

Zelda turned to the page of the text that she shared with her brother. Instead of reading, Edward found himself studying the features of their High Priest. The man was tall and middle-aged. He had dark, brown, skin and gray, curly hair. Edward knew that the man was only somewhat different from him or his family, but he never quite understood how different until that night. He then recalled an incident from back at their old home in England when he and his sisters chased each other around the house singing _Ba Ba Black Sheep._ They had substituted out parts of the lyrics with references to the High Priest’s hair and skin. Their mother heard their improvised song and scolded all three of them. A sharp tap on his shoulder from his mother snapped Edward back into the present day. He resumed pretending to read the text while his eyes wandered. Seated next to the High Priest’s pulpit on his left were each of Nicodemus Night’s wives. Despite telling the Coven to avoid bringing the rest of their partners until a safer time, Nicodemus had arranged for all six wives to migrate with the rest of the Coven. Edward studied each of Nicodemus’ wives. Miriam, Mildred, and Abigail had dark features much like the High Priest. Orpah, Delilah, and Esther were fair-skinned and light-haired like Edward’s own family. Edward then spotted the pews closest to the wives. In that pew section were Nicodemus’ five children: Meredith, Tabitha, Lois, Dinah, and David. Edward was still uncertain about whatever differences the Night family and the other Coven families may have. As long as he could remember, the High Priest preached that they were all the same and that underneath their skin-deep features, the same unholy, dark, souls resided in each of them.

* * *

Constance’ head slammed to the table. Waves of blinding white light retreated into the dark orb in front of her. She groaned as she clutched her head. 

“Wha...what happened?” she asked as she tried to ignore a fermenting headache

Sarah clasped her hand and nodded.

“You were gone for quite some time. A few hours.”

Sarah handed Constance a powdered pastry on a dish.

“You might want to try this. I made it especially to help with _time sickness._

“‘Time sickness’? So I really went back in time?”

Constance reluctantly plucked the pastry and cautiously bit into it. Sarah thought carefully about the other witch’s question.

“Well, I guess it should be called _‘orb sickness’_ instead? It’s difficult to say _how_ it works. It just does. Is it sending your body back in physical time? Or is it more like a dream? It’s hard to say.”

“Whatever it is, it’s...unnatural,” shivered Constance, “I felt...everything. I saw everything. No...I didn’t just _see_ them. I _knew_ everyone oh so intimately.”

Constance sipped from her cup of tea as she tried to collect her thoughts. It was common knowledge among the elder members of the Coven that an unnamed High Priest preceded Joseph Blackwood. It was also widely known that Greendale’s first High Priest resided over the Coven at the same time as dire events such as the First Winter Feast and the Hanging of the Thirteen. Faustus spoke of his father in positive terms and considered his position to be much-needed mitigation to the damage that was incurred. Constance knew that it was not uncommon for covens to redact disastrous priesthoods from the historical record. As per tradition, the Night children would have either been required to relocate or to shun him and deny their father’s position to remain members. She thought back to when Sarah brought up Meredith Night's suicide and her sister's death. Constance recalled her only having one sister. That meant the other sisters and brother chose to relocate rather than to renounce their father and remain. She did not consider herself to be a particularly compassionate woman, but she could not help herself from feeling a small amount of pity for Meredith. And by extension, that also meant for Prudence, surprisingly. Little did Prudence know, the poor girl not only bore the shame of her philandering father but also of a lineage so stigmatized that it was collectively forgotten. In Constance's mind, It was settled. The bastard girl simply should have never existed.

“Sarah, thank you so much for your help. I...I had no clue. I need to be heading back home now.” 

“Of course, dear. But Lady Bla— .” 

“— Constance.”

“Constance, then. I’m afraid we are not finished here. There is so much more history to cover. And it’s best to revisit the orb in multiple sessions. Otherwise, you will become dreadfully ill if you take it in all at once.”

Frowning, Constance draped herself in her peacoat and opened the front door. She never expected this to become a recurring encounter. But seeing as Faustus had forbidden her from returning to the Academy for at least another day...

“Um, yes. Of course. That’s fine, but I really must go now. Tomorrow at noon, then?”

“Of course, dear.”

Within the blink of an eye, Constance muttered a teleportation spell and she was immediately transported to her kitchen. She hurriedly flipped through her cookbook to find a suitable expedition spell in time. 


	4. Tribute

In between bites of stewed rabbit and tender leeks, Faustus prattled on about the events of his day. He had caught a freshman student using a prohibited memory spell during an exam for conjuring class. What the student did not know was that particular spell had a nasty side effect. The poor girl made it halfway through the essay portion of the exam before she began clutching her throat and sputtering. Before long, she had coughed up a six-inch trout. Due to the fish’s sharp fins and scales cutting her throat and mouth along the way, she had to be taken to the infirmary.

“If only her Latin were better, then she would have known that the consequence of the spell was ‘piscis’, or ‘fish’. Not ‘peace’!” he cruelly chuckled.

“Mm-hmm.” nodded Constance as she continued sipping from her goblet of wine. Truthfully, she was far more preoccupied with her orb session from earlier in the day. She had so many new questions that needed answering. What was the Coven’s final straw in dealing with Nicodemus? And how was it that so many original members of the Coven were tagati, but no tagati customs remained? And Faustus’ father...what did his father actually do? Something was not adding up. Then, as if a spark ignited, a curious thought came to mind. What if all of this time, she had been using the orb without direction? She indeed had difficulty in controlling her faculties when the orb enveloped her. But what if she was supposed to guide the orb to receive answers? What if she had to train herself to control it?

“Constance?”

She caught herself staring at her nearly full bowl of stew when she finally heard her husband’s voice.

“Um. I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said that tonight’s dinner was so exceptionally delectable that I should probably cause you to miss work more often.” His lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk.

Constance’s mouth opened to retort back: _And how many more times should I be bruised and bitten for your pleasure, Dear Husband?_ — but she then chose to rethink her inquiry.

“I’ve been evaluating some things,” she began, “I think that I had forgotten how satisfying it can be to dedicate more time to the simpler details in life. Our study could need more bookshelf organization. The living room has a bit more clutter than I would like. The bedroom’s decor could use a new color scheme—.”

“You believe that you need more time off, is what you are saying?”

“Correct, and it simply cannot all be completed by tomorrow. I would need a full week.”

“Only a week?”

She began to explain her estimate before Faustus clutched her hand. Constance fought back a shiver of disgust. The more that she ruminated on Nicodemus’ priesthood, the more that she felt wary of Faustus’ praise for his father’s intervention. What was her husband keeping from her?

“We can talk about it.” he conceded, “But one week, at a minimum. Who knows? You might end up preferring staying at home.”

* * *

Constance entered the worm-eaten door of the Old Mill. That morning, she had woken up earlier than Faustus in order to get a head start on organizing the library and preparing ingredients before her noon appointment. Once she had teleported inside of the Old Millhouse, Sarah greeted her from the table with a teacup in hand. At the center of the table was the Seer’s Eye, in all of its otherworldly glory. Constance took her seat opposite of the elder witch. She stretched her fingers around the orb but hesitated before making contact.

“Sarah, I meant to ask. But is there any reason why you never join us at the Church?”

“I’m sorry?” asked the governess while she poured Constance a cup of tea, “Drink up, my dear. It’s better to get some of this in you before a session as opposed to afterward.”

“Well, it’s just...I know that I’m not quite as involved in the community as I should be. Unlike my husband. But are you excommunicated? I’ve never seen you before. Not at the Feast of Feasts. Not at any Baptisms. I don’t recall you.”

Sarah visibly stiffened. As if detecting the tension, Bathsheba hopped into her lap and mewed. The elder witch stroked her fur as she explained.

“No. No ex-communication…”

Sarah’s voice trailed off into an unintelligible murmur. At that moment, Constance sensed the wave of melancholy that settled over the governess.

“Is there some sort of house-arrest spell binding you here?”

Sarah kneaded her hands together. Bathsheba mewed at her master.

“Well...you could call it that. It’s more of a spell of the mind more than anything a witch or warlock could cast.”

At first, she was puzzled, but Constance silently pieced it together. Constance was about to pry further until she thought better of it. With her eyes closed, she tried to envision the Coven and pinpoint exactly what questions she had for the orb. Satisfied, she then wrapped her fingers around the glassy surface. The Seer’s Eye’s colors and whorls swirled around her fingers as the white light engulfed her.

* * *

During the first year of settlement, the Greendale Colony realized that life in the New World was not a simple one. In the hopes of cementing a trade relationship, nearby natives of Wampanoag extraction had taught the Greendale colony leaders how to clear the lands and strategically hunt game. Despite an initial eagerness to assist the newcomers, the Wampanoag people became scarce and avoidant over time. When Northrup Green—Greendale’s Colony Leader—attempted to establish a meeting with the Wampanoag chieftain, he was rebuffed by the chief’s closest advisors. When pressed for answers, the closest translation he could determine were the phrases “curse” and “bad spirit”. Northrup disclosed this development at a town hall meeting to advise the religious leaders of each Greendale faction to guide their people in prayer. Despite this call for devotion, a black cloud of misfortune seemed to linger over Greendale. No faction was hit harder than Greendale’s Coven of witches. The mountainside could not be farmed for enough vegetable crops in time for the harsh winter of that year. After one family was discovered to have kidnapped a lame mortal child and eaten him out of desperation, Nicodemus requested an emergency assembly. Although witches and warlocks require less sustenance than mortals, they still needed flesh to survive the winter.

“I am aware that we may be running out of time,” he paused to watch the worried expressions of the witches and warlocks as they took in his somber announcement from the pulpit. “We could not have foreseen these challenges...There were simply too many misfortunes to account for. The rot that infected our corn...our only sow that devoured her piglets...Despite persevering to replace this lost yield, we still fell short this winter.”

Elijah Spellman glanced at the pews across the aisle from him and his family. He could see Joseph Blackwood’s stone face.

“If I may speak,” shouted a young witch who rose from the pews, “I have something to say.”

Hushed whispers and craned heads surrounded the young maiden with flaxen hair. Nicodemus nodded.

“Please do not make it a habit of interrupting me, Freija,” he snapped, “But you may continue.”

The witch named Freija closed her eyes and swallowed a lump in her throat. When she opened them, her eyes shimmered in tears that slowly trailed down her cheeks.

“I...I offer my flesh.”

The congregation erupted in gasps and chatter. Nicodemus froze in horror.

“That is quite unnecessary...completely out of the question!”

“Of course it’s necessary! “ she shouted, “We have barely enough corn and chickens to last us a fortnight. Even when rationed!”

“Freija, stop. We could still bargain with the other settlements. Perhaps they could—”

“With all due respect,” interrupted Freija, “the mortal settlements are not doing much better than us. And we have nothing of value to trade them.”

The High Priest furiously scanned the room before his eyes settled on his children and wives in the front rows of the pews. His eyes settled on Esther’s swollen belly. His gaze then settled on the expectant stares from the families seated around them.

“I suppose we have no other option...” he trailed off. The Coven had long grown frustrated with him, and he could not blame them.

The next day, Freija Fagan was prepared for that evening’s feast. The luxuries that she and the other witches had up until now only dreamed of were now showered upon her. For breakfast, she dined on cream and curd fritters with blackberry jam — ingredients that were surreptitiously stolen from a mortal family. As her sister began bathing her with jasmine-steeped water, Freija protested.

“Damaris, is that the last of your jasmine tea? The one that brother gifted you back home?”

“I shan’t be needing it, Freija. What better time to use it than while doting on my sister?”

Freija nodded in solemn agreement before sitting back down into the washbasin. As Damaris proceeded to wash and comb her sister’s hair in the fragrant water, she failed to notice the tears that stained her sister’s pale cheeks.

Nicodemus and Joseph traipsed down the dirt path of the Greendale Coven’s Village. The priest waved and nodded at every child playing on the trail while Joseph tried his best to engage him in serious conversation.

“Father Night, I’m only saying that we may want to reconsider our relationship with the mortals. I sense that they are becoming more suspicious of us with every passing season.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t you agree that we are no longer benefiting from trade or protection by allying ourselves with them? Not just the English ones, but the Wampanoag as well.”

Nicodemus turned to face Joseph as he put his hand on the rope handle of the Fagan household’s door.

“Well can you blame them, Joseph? We have been the secretive ones. Suspicion is only natural.”

Joseph’s face froze in surprise at his response.

“Come again, Father?”

“Joseph, the road to progress is difficult. But it is a worthy one. Witches and warlocks cannot continue to survive by skulking around in the margins of the world.”

“ ‘Progress’? By what metric? I do not understand.” Joseph asked with increasing anger.

“It will take some time. But when the time is ripe for collaboration, then the mortals will come to accept us and our ways. And when that happens, we will finally join them as brothers and sisters. Such as was the process with Dorothea Putnam.”

Joseph stared incredulously at the priest as he continued walking into the household without him. The sound of a woman’s shriek snapped him out of his bewilderment. He quickly entered the home to discover a nude Freija Fagan standing in a washbasin. Damaris quickly bowed before the High Priest draping a wool blanket over her sister’s shoulders.

“Oh. Father Night...We were not expecting you.”

Unphased, Nicodemus continued walking towards Freija until he embraced her.

“Dear child. I’ve come to thank you for your sacrifice.”

Freija’s eyes danced around the room until they settled on her sister’s, and then Joseph Blackwood’s. Her sister appeared relieved, but Joseph’s disapproving frown startled her.

“Um...Father Night?’

Nicodemus continued to embrace her. His hands trailed up her torso and arms before grabbing her hands in his. Her eyes locked onto his.

“Child, your gift to our Coven will not be in vain. I can assure you that such a selfless tribute will forever endear you towards the Dark Lord. You shall sit by his side when the Apocalypse transpires.”

Freija wanted to pull away from him, but she allowed his touch.

“I...I will?”

Nicodemus placed his lips on hers and clutched her hands in renewed vigor.

“Why of course! Your flesh is the most precious gift that you could bequeath upon us. What kind of lord would he be if he did not reward you for it?”

Joseph huffed loudly as he exited the cottage. Nicodemus and the Fagan sisters barely noticed his departure.

* * *

Later that spring, Rudolf Von Kunkle, of the German-Dutch colonists, frequently brought grievances to the Colony Leader. The main complaint was that the German-Dutch settlers were given an unfair deal. The forests did not provide nearly enough in terms of resources for both sustenance and trade. They could only clear so much land for large-scale farming without encroaching on the Brownist Puritan’s fields. Fishing interested them, but between competing with the Brownist Puritans, they could only yield enough for their own consumption. Von Kunkle suggested exploratory excavations around the North English-Scots’ mountain territory in hopes of mining precious minerals, but Joseph Blackwood and Elijah Spellman dismissed it. Each time this grievance was aired, the complaint was disregarded due to Von Kunkle’s settlement being a relatively small one compared to the others. Once the town hall meetings began to regularly strike Rudolf’s complaints from the agenda, Rudolf accused the Colony of anti-Germanic bias. It was at the monthly meeting of that December when Joseph Blackwood was called to the dais. Von Kunkle began his inquiry.

“Blackwood, why is it that your people never observe the Sabbath day?”

“Order!” shouted Northrup Green, the Colony Leader, “Von Kunkle, you have made yourself into a nuisance during every meeting. I demand that you leave and send someone else in your place from now on!”

While being forcibly exited from the courthouse, Von Kunkle loudly shouted, “And why is it that you have so many blackamoors? It’s almost as if your mulattoes are multiplying. And why do you have so many unmarried maidens?”

At that point, Elijah and Joseph eyed each other in silent acknowledgment of what was just revealed to them that day. Had Von Kunkle had been spying on them? They do not celebrate the Christian Sabbath Day, but they observe their own Midnight Sabbath — an amalgamation of their own English Black Sabbath customs and the Tagati Sabbath customs of music and dance. For whereas the Puritan custom of Sabbath Day was to rest and avoid recreation, the Coven used the day for labor and the Midnight Sabbath as a festive time for the celebration of the Dark Lord. As for the allegation that the tagati witches and warlocks were multiplying, Nicodemus Night had recently celebrated the birth of his sixth child, Judas. Nicodemus' English wives, as well as some other warlocks', did appear uncoupled if one were to assume that all married men and women had monogamous arrangements. They walked silently on the trail towards their mountain settlement. Neither one dared to discuss Von Kunkle until they both entered Joseph’s house.

“What shall we do now, Joseph?” asked Elijah worriedly.

“If it were my way, I would ensure that Von Kunkle would perish of ‘natural causes’”. Muttered Joseph as his redheaded wife, Ophelia, removed his frock for him.

“We cannot,” whispered Elijah as he suddenly noticed that Joseph and Agnes’ son, Faustus, was playing with toys on the living room floor.

“Of course we can!” exclaimed Joseph, “That Teutonic bastard! If Nicodemus knew what was best for the Coven, he would agree with me.”

“I do not plan on suggesting that to Nicodemus. When we explain the situation to him, you can work on persuading him to do that. I will have no part in it.”

“It’s his fault anyway,” muttered Joseph, “The risks were too high...that many wives and children? What did he expect? If you’re going to breed that many witches around mortals, then the least you can do is keep them hidden. Especially if you are tagati!”

“What do you mean?” asked Elijah with caution. He had few grievances with Nicodemus’ priesthood, and he did not have much of an opinion of his family.

“You know what I mean,” Joseph muttered contemptuously, “Haven’t you noticed? English and Scottish witches and warlocks...well, we have a difficult time at it, don’t we? But the tagati....I’m not sure what it is. But don’t you agree that they appear to be quite fertile?”

“I...I don’t believe that’s the case,” stumbled Elijah. He had been caught off guard by the suggestion, and even he found himself pondering the possibility before banishing away the thought. “Nicodemus has been blessed with children. He is as blessed as a loyal servant of The Dark Lord should hope to be, isn’t he? And if there were truly a difference, then of what business or consequence of it is ours?”

Joseph chuckled. He motioned towards Faustus to join him at the seat next to him.

“Perhaps it’s no business of ours. But the consequences? They could be numerous. What sort of coven do you imagine this to be like within three generations’ time?”

Elijah shook his head and chose to ignore the barrage of offensive remarks. Joseph had invited him to dinner and he was not in the mood to be combative with the man in his own house. Dinner that night consisted of rabbit leek stew and a round, savory, biscuit. Elijah never thought he would enjoy hardtack after months of eating almost nothing but it during last year’s voyage. But to his delight, the way that Ophelia made it was slightly fluffier and more flavorful than usual. Sweeter as well.

“Dinner is excellent, Ophelia. You’ve outdone yourself with the hardtack.”

Ophelia smiled and looked at Joseph. Her husband nodded and Ophelia happily responded.

“Thank you, although it isn’t really hardtack. It’s made with cornmeal. I felt like experimenting. And I cannot take all of the credit for dinner. Agnes made the stew.”

From across the table, Agnes smiled.

“When you live with Joseph long enough, you learn how to make his favorites. You become an expert.”  
Joseph winked at Agnes while gulping down his mug of table beer. He then cleared his throat and returned to face Elijah.

“Back to the matter at hand. Nicodemus cannot be trusted.”

Elijah groaned as he chewed on a rabbit morsel.

“I’m serious, Elijah. Remember the Feast of Feasts?”

“How could I forget? Freija’s meat was delectable.” Elijah sardonically quipped.

“It should have never have come to that. However you may feel about his spiritual guidance, that is one matter. But he is not fit to lead. He is causing more problems than he solves. And he is quite inappropriate with —.”

“Ophelia? Agnes?” interrupted Elijah as he pointed at his mug, “The table beer is great. Who brewed it?”

Joseph sheepishly returned to his meal while Elijah chatted with the Blackwood wives.


End file.
